Heartbeats
by androgenius
Summary: Wendla was supposed to die that night, but sometimes things don't go quite as planned.
1. Chapter 1

London bustled like a city under siege. Underfoot, the cobblestones sounded as if to complain of the rain's constant harassment of them.

Melchior understood. It had certainly been a hard year and a half.

Even now, having found work and shelter in this city that devoured the weak, Melchior did not feel safe.

He'd been offered the apprenticeship through healthy doses of both good will— on the part of the seemingly ancient librarian— and begging— on the part of Melchior. Even if it meant sleeping in a small room above the library that could only be considered an attic by those looking rather kindly upon it, otherwise simply a small, poor excuse for a servant's quarters, Melchior was grateful. His English was good, but not perfect. He was well-read for his age, but he was still young, and had, as the old man had put it, still much to read.

And as much as that excited Melchior, there was only so much opportunity to put his abilities to good use with the work before him.

* * *

_November 13st, 1893_

_Mama,_

_Thank you for your letter. I am doing well. London is wonderful and appears to have taken me into its arms as much as any rogue could expect it to. Everything here is much busier than at home— even the library where I have found work. I am afraid that the stipend you so generously offered me is gone and used up, but it is not so bad, earning my living. Sometimes I even rather enjoy it._

_I must confess that I have been spending rather more time reading than I have working, but the temptation is simply too great— the library is so vast, and there are so many nooks and crannies in which to hide myself with many a book in hand. Sometimes I become so engrossed that the old man will catch me, and I must suffer the beatings for my insubordination, but it is worth it for the books. They seduce me far too easily with their beautiful words, I do not hardly know what to do with myself._

_I do apologize for waiting so long to write to you, but I must confess that my current lodgings are rather cramped and leave much to be desired. It has taken me longer than I had hoped to procure a writing desk and accompanying parchment and ink._

_Now that I have these at my disposal, however— the old man I am apprenticing under having taken some measure of pity on me— I look forward to hearing from you soon, and I do promise that my next letter shan't be quite so delayed as this one._

_With love,_  
_Yours truly,_  
_Melchior._

* * *

_In Memory to December 18th, 1891_

For a girl in her position, Wendla had it extremely well. Working as a hand-maiden for the Von —'s, cleaning, washing, she had even been lucky enough to have made friends amongst the other servants, taken in with them as if she were family.

To say that she was grateful was putting things mildly. There was only so much a mother could do with a child in her situation, even if Wendla did not understand the exact circumstances.

"You're a disgrace to the whole family," Frau Bergman had said rather quietly, darkly, as if everything about this was entirely Wendla's fault for not knowing better. "I no longer have a choice, you understand? We'll have to tell your father tonight and leave him to decide if there's anything we can do with you."

As it turned out, there wasn't. Locked into her room, the only thing Wendla could make out were muffled snippets of their conversation, most of it the bellowing of her father and the cries of her mother.

"Abortion — doctor — damn fraud — all the money — no choice," and finally just, "she has to go."

As stony-faced as her mother looked when she retrieved her from her room, the bloodshot redness in her eyes gave her away, and Wendla felt lighter for it, somehow.

"I've already found an opening not far from here. They're a rich family who should be moving soon, and they were looking to hire extra help. I've already sent a letter, so we should be hearing back from them soon, I hope. You are not to leave this house, understood?"

* * *

The funeral was held three days later, Wendla put on a coach headed to Hamburg the following week. Within the confines of their small town, Wendla Bergman had effectively ceased to exist.

* * *

Two weeks following his discovery of her gravestone beside that of Moritz, Melchior began to write letters.

He hadn't been entirely honest with his mother, really, if he considered the lack of space for a desk cumbersome. It was a question of what really mattered, and despite the fact that his mother was, of course, important to him, he'd promised them.

Every night before bed, with near-religious adherence to his cause, he pulled out parchment and ink, and began to write.

* * *

_Moritz, my dear friend,_

_Sometimes I wish you were still here for the strangest reasons. Pirates! Do you remember? Those were some of my favorite memories to relive in darker times, and trust, there have been many as of late. I must confess I've been quite lucky, really, and still I miss the things I do not have, your companionship in particular._

_I have so much still to tell you, to teach you, and yet I wish not for you, my dear, dead friend, to think of me as your mentor, let alone your instructor. I will always be your equal, your friend. I pray beg you to realize how much you've taught me. You've always underestimated yourself when you were so full of vigor and worth. Sometimes I feel the whole world misses you, truly._

_Your friend,_

_M._

_My lovely, dearest Wendla,_

_Even in the whole city of London I cannot seem to find a single beauty that so much as rivals your own, can you believe it? They all pale in comparison to my memory of you. I know it seems silly to place you upon a pedestal when I ought not to hope to ever see your beautiful face again, but I cannot help it._

_I realized last night that I still hear your heartbeat, even now, after all this time. I wonder whether you might hear mine, as well, wherever you are now. If it is meant to haunt me for the rest of my days, so be it, I say, I will take my punishment like a man with valor._

_Your smell, your touch, the feel of your skin beneath my hands— the things I would offer if only I could have one more moment, one more lifetime with you._

_I miss you. Most ardently. Sometimes I will turn my head and think I smell you, but when I turn to look for your face, there is nothing there. How I wish to hold you and touch you one last time._

_Every night when I think back to our time in the hayloft together, I can hardly control myself from the urges and passions I feel. Some nights I will even imagine it is your hands instead of my own that touch me, and the feelings are only heightened. At times when I am shelving for the old man, it can be quite distracting, and I cannot help but wonder if I, too, am distracting to you where you are._

_With all my love,_

_Your Melchior._

* * *

_December 1st, 1893_

"Let me tell you, it's not good to do that for a child for too long."

"She's just attached," Wendla retorted quietly, clutching her daughter to her chest as she suckled on her breast. "She should be ready for her nap soon. I promise I will then go out for the wash."

"The child is _too _attached. I heard you complain to Margarete of your aching back just yesterday. It's because you carry that child around with you too much. You need to go out to the market, she starts screaming, and of course you pick her up. You're too soft on her. That child needs a father to put his foot down."

It was hardly that Ingrid, the head cook of the household, was not right. But every time the subject of a father came up, Wendla did everything to dodge the topic as fast as she could, quick to fall silent.

What was she supposed to do? Was it not enough already to look upon their daughter and see Melchior in every feature? She hardly looked like her mama at all, a shock of dark-blonde curls gracing her head and big blue-green eyes peering up at her as if she had all the answers.

But Wendla hardly even knew how she'd ended up here. Melchior was the one with the answers, not her.

"I'll take her, if you need me to."

"Oh, it's all right. I'll just take her with me in a moment if she doesn't wish to fall asleep."

Ingrid scoffed. "As if the labor wasn't hard enough already, now we've got another umbilical cord to cut."

"Don't be unkind. It's all she has left."

"Yes, since she can't seem to want to open her mouth about the father. It's like he never even existed and she just decided one day to have a child all on her own."

"I'm going out to do the laundry," Wendla announced, tucking her breast back into her shirt and hoisting Sophie onto her hip. "I'll be back later."

Wendla always hated this kind of talk. It was the kind of thing she'd hoped to escape by avoid by steering clear of the public sector, but it wasn't to be. Still, memories of Melchior haunted her wherever she went, whether it was from looking at Sophie, listening to the others' gossip, and most recently, the way Sophie had turned into a little copycat, sometimes repeating things she was supposed to, and more often, not supposed to.

Like _daddy. Dada. Papa. _

And as much as she tried not to care, not to listen, she couldn't help but hear the sound of that question mark at the end of the word, like a direct accusation aimed straight at Wendla.

_Where is Papa? Don't you care about him, Mama? Other girls have their daddy. Don't you miss him? Where is he?_

It was all she could do not to cry whenever she retreated to hang up the laundry, foot on the edge of the small crib to rock Sophie into sleep. But she didn't know where Melchior was. For all the letters she'd sent to him, she'd feared that not a single had reached him. In spite of her mother's wishes, she'd even attempted to write to Fanny Gabor, but nothing had come of that, either. Was he still alive? Did he even still remember her? Care about her? For all she knew, he very well could think her dead, eradicating all hope of seeing him again.

Was he all right where he was? Safe? Happy? Did he miss her at all? If he'd heard of her sudden departure from this world, did he have the strength to carry on after Moritz's death? Or had he followed him to his untimely demise, leaving Sophie truly without a father? It was hard enough trying not to think of him all on her own; the last thing she needed was someone else reminding her of what she'd lost in him, what they'd _both _lost.

* * *

Loneliness had become a good friend to Melchior since he'd been left behind by the two of them, sucking him dry like quicksand, gutting him. The old man who had taken him in already had Death knocking on his door and he knew it, leaving Melchior truly wary of any other attachments for fear of more death around him as he walked with his memories of Wendla and Moritz by his side.

There was a small window in his pitiful excuse of a room out of which Melchior was content to gaze nightly, the sky beautifully visible from the small building peak.

Moritz would have loved it, he knew.

"Is it not breathtakingly awe-inspiring?" he asked, knowing fully well that his old friend was not there to hear it. "If only you were here now, my friend. We could conquer London by storm, just you and me. I know you were never particularly good at English, but I could have helped you, fear not."

Letting his eyes drift closed, his head thrummed softly against the wall behind him.

"I wish you'd have stayed just a bit longer in this life, Moritz. So much has happened that I hardly know what to do with myself."

So soon after his time with Wendla, Moritz had left him, leaving him unable to ever tell him about any of it. If he'd have known how good it could be, would he have still left? It wasn't fair. The things Melchior would do to only have his friend back just for a moment, get the sickeningly heavy weight of his actions off of his chest, make him feel less like a criminal for what he and Wendla had done.

What he'd done to Wendla.

"I know that I have never written to you of Wendla, but I simply must tell you what happened today. I could not so much as fathom telling her this, I'm sure you understand." Realizing how truly odd it was to speak to someone who was not there, he righted himself in his seat just slightly, tucking one knee up and close to his chest. Who else was he to speak with? He surely could not tell his mother of such things.

"I saw an angel today," he said softly, licking his lips as he let his eyes close, and his head fall back against the wall. "I was at the market, you see, and— god, Moritz, she looked just like Wendla. Her face— I only saw her for a moment before she disappeared into the crowd, but— m-my mind must have been deceiving me, surely, but for a moment I wondered if I would ever be able to love another. I ought not to. I promised her, just as I did you, to walk with her in my heart for as long as I am alive.

"But am I not cheating her whence my eyes fall prey to other women? How can I possibly bear to look at myself with a clear conscience? And it's— it's not just that time it's happened. There have been others. It's as if I see Wendla in my mind's eye wherever I go. But I saw her grave, Moritz! It is not as though she still walks among us, my angel. It's not possible! Either I am disloyal, or I am losing my sanity, truly.

"I must confess, I have not seen you, my friend, so my mind cannot be deceiving me that greatly." Taking a deep, shaky breath, he tore at his hair. He needed to depart from this topic. "I wish you'd have seen her the way I was able, Moritz. Her breasts— oh god, her breasts, they were perfect in my hands. I even dared to taste them briefly before my impatience overtook my senses and robbed me of my sanity. How I wish to taste her skin again, to kiss her once more. She resisted my advances at first, but she wished it, too, I know. I could see it in her eyes, Moritz—

"Don't— don't think ill of me, I did not force her. I wished her to say yes, and my beautiful angel did, god—" The back of his neck was starting to feel warm. He was getting hard. "I _touched _her Moritz. She let me part her legs, and I— I could hardly tear my eyes off of her, she was so beautiful, so warm and slick and—" groaning, he bit down on his lip, one hand slowly moving to rub his length through his pants with awkward desperation. "I-I took her as my own, I— we— we made love in the hay, I—" Fumbling with his suspenders and the fastening of his pants, he swallowed hard, finally taking himself in his hand. "She felt so good around me, so completely different from just... when I touch myself. So much better than anything I could have ever imagined. I know I shouldn't have, she didn't know— she cried out when I pushed inside of her—"

His breathing was coming out ragged just as his words. "I should have been more careful with her, but I just— I could not control myself, I wished to be with her so badly. It was finally happening, and if I'd had to stop then, I would have died, she—" With another low cry, he came, emptying himself, the sticky white liquid running down his knuckles as he bucked up into his hand, eyes still closed as he rode out his orgasm, Wendla's name spilling from his lips with a cry.

* * *

_December 10th, 1893_

Sophie had begun sleeping through the night, only taking one nap in the afternoon now. Walking around more sure-footedly since she'd taken her first, faltering steps about a month prior, Wendla almost preferred her asleep, content to know for certain that she was safe. If she was anything like her parents, she was bound to be tenacious, overly inquisitive, and rebellious at best.

As a mother, Wendla was quickly learning just how lethal of a combination this turned out to be, desperately wishing, once again, that she had Melchior by her side to support her and help her.

He was missing out on everything. The ups, downs, excitements. He was supposed to have been there when her first word had been _dada_, when she rolled over for the first time, when she started to take her first steps and made her first falls. Soothing her back to get her to burp, or cleaning the scrape on her forehead from being a bit too overeager in her walking.

If only she had some means, some way by which to find him, look up if he was anywhere near her— though it didn't seem like a likely possibility— maybe she could get somewhere. But for all the asking around she'd done, no one had ever heard of Melchior Gabor.

It was stupid, of course, going off a hunch. But she could have sworn she'd seen him— a number of times by now, even, whenever she left the estate to escape to the market.

But Melchior would be well-known around if he was here, surely, just as he would, more than likely, look distinctly different from the boy she'd seen, happier, _brighter_.

The stranger had looked saddened, and deeply so. Sallowed, deeply sunken cheeks, more so even than before, as if he'd not been eating much. A steady frown on his face, as though all the joy had gone from his life. It was certainly not the Melchior she'd known.

Then again, she wasn't the same Wendla he'd known, either. She'd had it so good, before; so easy. No need to work or care for anyone but herself. Ever since their time spent in the hayloft, he had become her world, her everything. And as all that had crumbled before her as she lost him, her reality had shifted once more.

Sophie, even before she was born, required constant attention doted upon her, and Wendla could not help but give it to her whenever she demanded. But it wasn't until she was born that Wendla finally understood.

Her world had not truly changed. Sophie looked just as Melchior did, reminding her every day who was still, after all this time, most important to her. It hurt far worse than she cared to admit, knowing that he was gone only to leave her with a child to care for that looked as though she had been crafted to look as the very apple of his eye.

* * *

"Strand! Strand! Get the Strand! Just five pence, get it here!"

With Sophie on her arm and her small purse of money clutched tightly in her palm, Wendla rarely stalled as she sifted her way through the dense crowds of the London Saturday afternoon market. Told not to trust anyone, Wendla repeatedly had to resist the urge to ask the merchants about their fare, the fruits and vegetables they had to offer. It was pure necessity that she do just as she was told, not looking twice at anyone.

Except _him._

She nearly missed it, but the shock of dark-blonde curls drew her gaze despite her best efforts to the contrary.

It had happened a number of times prior by now. This time it had been just two weeks to Sophie's half-birthday, snow already coating the world in a sea of white that felt fake, wrong somehow.

Her eyes had first caught hold of the snow-covered hair on the back of his head, causing Wendla to do a double-take, terrified, suddenly, to blink. Hitching Sophie higher on her hip, she couldn't help the way she stared upon his turning around, looking back at her as if he'd seen a ghost.

And in a way, he might have, hadn't he? Wasn't that precisely what she was supposed to be to the outside world?

Sophie's tiny fingers reached out to him before she could stop her— she was always far too eager to be friendly to those around her— and Wendla turned away, abruptly, deciding on the spot to lie to Ingrid for the first time and simply say that they had been entirely out of cabbage at the market, and that they would need to make do without that day.

The snow turned bitterly vehement in its anger overnight, and Sophie cried far more than she should have. She was a testy baby at best— something Ingrid condemned to being caused by an erroneously heightened intellect, tenacity, and rebellion in girls (none of which was a great surprise if she spared even a single thought to the father)— but for her to start teething when she'd barely just begun to sleep for longer periods felt like a judgment from God. Of course she had to end up with the intelligent daughter when obedient would have been far preferable what with her absentee father, Ingrid's words echoing as resentment rose in her chest like bile.

Surely, _surely _he couldn't have known that this would happen, or he would have told her, would have stopped before doing what he did, leaving her with child.

But if there was one thing she could not forget, it was the guilt etched on his features upon withdrawing from her.

And still, even despite this, more than anything, she wished to lie with him again.


	2. Chapter 2

_December 21st, 189__3_

___My dearest Wendla,_

_I fear you may think me losing my wits, but this morning at the market, I saw an angel._

_I must confess, I do not believe in much, that I am indeed, yes, a skeptic, but I dare say I know an angel whence I do see one._

_It's just started snowing here in London, you see, and everything looks so beautiful blanketed in white. I know I hardly deserve to look at such purity, but then, I did gaze upon you once, did I not? My sweet, perfect Wendla._

_I fear I am seeing you everywhere. Is this, perhaps, what insanity feels like? Or is it love? I know I denounced such foolish notions long ago, but if I dare say it, I do, perhaps, think more of it now than I did before. But then, what we did in the hayloft can hardly be defined as love. It was far too physical. What I feel now... I am not certain. I certainly long for you, but then, I long for Moritz's presence by my side, as well._

_All I know for certain is that your hair, covered in snowflakes, is the most beautiful thing fate has dared to bestow upon me. And little fingers, reaching out, as if my finger belonged in that tiny little grip, as if that darling child knew me. I must have been dreaming, seeing you there today. Surely I was dreaming._

_How I long to see you again. To touch you again. To lie beside you and take my time— to caress and kiss every part of you. Our last meeting was so fleeting, I hardly knew what to do of myself, and yet... I know I cannot have m—_

The writing smeared just there, the writers seemingly distracted briefly as the tip of his quill seemed to trail off to the side, or perhaps written in a coach, the roads bumpy enough to lead one's ink trail astray. Regardless of the circumstances, the letter that sailed off into the distance and over the grand estate walls was unfinished as ever, and Melchior stared after it, his gaze hurriedly darting from the lost letter to the remainder of his things on the ground, his journal strewn open on the ground, several of his letters scattered about it.

Scrambling to pick up his things, he clutched them to his chest as if he'd nearly just lost Wendla and Moritz themselves amongst the pages, staring forlornly after the lost letter.

No one else could read it. No one else could see it. He bared his heart, his soul—

Quickly tucking his journal into his satchel, he cast another glance at the rather large, formidable-looking wall, his eyes scrambling to find some way to get up it. It certainly seemed far too difficult to climb, but the tree situated nearby seemed the perfect opportunity.

Nodding resolutely as though someone were watching, he grabbed hold of a branch, swinging one leg up and doing his best to hoist his body onto the lower point, working his way up the tree, only shifting slightly with his weight as he finally found himself looking over the edge.

As one leg carefully reached out for some footing on the top of the wall, his hand finally let go of the branch it had been holding onto.

There was no way he could have expected the thing patch of ice underneath his toes, making him slip and plummet, after a terrible landing on his leg, face-first onto a rather large rock on the ground, something he had been planning to use as a jumping point before, and the world went dark for Melchior Gabor.

* * *

It wasn't until that next morning that Edith discovered the body, having crushed several of her owner's viburnum bushes in its descent from the estate wall. And it wasn't until that next evening until Wendla learned of its sudden appearance, too busy with folding linens and calming Sophie to care much of everyone else's hustle and bustle about some man the stork had apparently dropped onto them from the sky.

"I suppose we'll have to call on Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Oh— there you are, Wendla. Yes, he'd just lain here."

As the proverbial head of the roost, Ingrid generally tended to have her finger on the sometimes barely-beating pulse of every gossip-worthy topic. As much as such a tendency sometimes proved to come quite in handy, right now all Wendla could think of was how grateful she was that the formidable woman did not, in fact, know everything that she tried to lay claim to, her heart hardly bearing to beat as she gazed upon Melchior.

A million questions seemed to flood her mind all at once. If it had been him who she'd seen at the market all those times— and it had— what was he doing in London, of all places? Had he been looking for her? Had he known he'd find her here? How had he known? And if he had actually climbed the wall just for her, why had he not simply thought to request an audience with her?

"Anyway, yes, like I said, we'll need to notify Scotland Yard."

"No!" Wendla said suddenly, pulling her arms around herself. "This man clearly is in desperate need of medical care."

Throwing her a stern look, Ingrid offered a guiltless sigh, placing her fists resolutely at her waist with a huff. "I suppose the Hospital will have to do then."

"They— no. I'll take him in my care."

The collective gasp and subsequent murmur that erupted felt reminiscent of her classroom at home, each girl more preoccupied with the others' business than the next.

"And _how _exact—"

"I'll pay for his lodgings here." As small of a sum as her mother had offered her prior to her departure, she'd truly only used a minimal amount of it, and it would be more than sufficient. Now she couldn't help but be grateful for it. "I'll pay for his care personally. He can stay in my room."

"He most certainly will do no such thing! Or are you attempting to offer the world another bastard child?"

* * *

She'd been regrettably right in regard to his wounds, and she couldn't help but be grateful that he'd been unconscious when Edith had helped her bring him into the room.

His leg at least seemed to be, thankfully, not broken, and with the exception of the gash at his forehead, he appeared to be mostly all right, but she couldn't be certain in the state of dress he was currently in.

Sophie had refused to stop screaming for all her care, and finally Anna had offered to take her, a tremendous relief to Wendla.

Now, gazing upon Melchior, the need for her to face her demons felt more pressing than ever, Wendla careful to peel his suspenders off without hurting him further as the memory of their time together stung almost viscerally upon her every touch to him.

Moving to unbutton his shirt, she did her best to pull it off his body just enough to inspect him for further injuries and nothing more.

Other than another shallow gash in his shoulder, however, his chest looked fine, and she strained to keep looking upon him with a gaze that was purely clinical, and nothing else. As she shifted her attention lower, trembling hands unbuttoned his pants to slowly start slipping them down his legs, careful not to touch and hurt him further than she already feared she had.

He shifted, suddenly, groaning softly, and Wendla had to bite her lip to keep herself calm. She hadn't even gotten to process her own thoughts on any of this; if he woke up now, it would be far too soon. He'd have so many questions, and she, none of the answers.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced her eyes open as she shifted his pants over his groin, continuing down until the large gash on his leg began to show itself to her, stretching all the way from his knee to his ankle. At the very least, his leg did not appear to be broken, though at this rate, it appeared as though he might be walking with some amount of support for quite some time, if nothing else.

Fetching bandages, she did her best to try to clean his festering wounds with soap and water, cleaning off the encrusted, dried up blood around it first. He'd been left out there for a good day and a half, and she couldn't help but be thankful that he'd been wearing as much as he had and had only lost a moderate amount of blood.

If he'd bled out and died only for her to find him there— she had no idea what she would have done.

Losing him once had been hard enough, but losing him twice...

The wound looked incredibly painful, but at least it had stopped bleeding. Tending to the wound itself earned her several moans of pain from him, his body recoiling from her touch. Taking a deep breath, she bit down on her lower lip and kept going despite his unconscious protests, wincing with every pained whimper from him.

Dressing his leg with the bandages she'd brought, she watched his face carefully, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his face would sometimes reveal twinges of pain or turmoil to her of which she'd otherwise never learn.

* * *

It took Wendla three hours to properly clean and dress his wounds. From the look of his head, he'd suffered a decent concussion, and it was no wonder that he was unconscious for the time being. He'd taken a terrible fall and landed rather unfortunately, and she could just hope that he'd have even just half of his wits about him when he came to.

_When he came to_. It seemed as foreign of an idea to Wendla now as ever. She'd barely acclimated to the fact that he was back in her life, but conscious, too? Able to talk to her, kiss her once more?

She'd kept his clothing neatly folded at the foot of his bed, leaving him bare in only his drawers, and her fighting not to stare at him. His still-boyish chest was broader than she'd remembered it, but there was no hair that graced it to show that he'd grown even remotely, much like his face.

His ribcage was showing just slightly— that much she knew— though his somewhat sallowed cheeks had given him away even before she'd removed his shirt to gaze unto his chest. He was hardly eating.

Still, he was in her care now, and therefore there was no reason to worry for him any longer.

Taking the small basin of warm water and the accompanying cloth, she began the slow task of washing him, moving the soft rag over his skin as she cleaned off the dirt that seemed to have been left to accumulate over several months, doing her best not to care of the way her heartbeat seemed to race as she tended to his private areas.

To think that she'd been so close with him once before, only to now feel a heated blush creep over her face and neck, felt disappointing, somehow. Had she really been close to him at all? Had their intimacy even meant anything to him?

As she finished cleaning his legs, arms, and torso, she halted at the edge of his drawers, reluctance and embarrassment getting the better of her.

Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut as she lifted up the waistband of his drawers and slowly slid them over his hipbones and thighs, his member seemingly asleep as it lay nestled at the slight dip where his thigh met his pelvis.

Wendla couldn't help but stare, only swallowing the lump in her throat when she realized that she'd been neglecting her duties.

She couldn't help but pray that he not wake with her doing this, lest he find her staring, face hot from shame.

She wished, so badly, to touch him.

Steeling herself, she refused her urges and continued on her task, slowly washing off the remaining parts of him before hurriedly replacing his drawers where they belonged. She'd wash his clothing tomorrow and redress him, but until then, she'd have to be content with covering him in several layers of blankets. It was bitterly cold out, and the last thing she wished was for him to freeze after she'd done everything she could to keep his injuries from becoming infected.

Taking back Sophie from Anna to place her into her cradle, Wendla crafted a small makeshift bed for her on the floor between the two in her tiny room, Sophie's cradle to her left, Melchior's sleeping form to her right.

For the first time in a long time, Wendla slept well.

* * *

_December 26th, 1893_

He felt like he'd been out for days when Moritz finally walked into the room where he laid, feverish, delirious, to take a seat beside him.

He'd been unable to make a sound whenever his angel, Wendla, walked into the room these past days, confined just to watching her move, change his bedpan, wipe his forehead with a cold cloth, and he couldn't help but wonder whether he'd died, whether it was finally time for him to walk beside Moritz and Wendla and join them in the silence of death— but now that Moritz was sitting by him, his throat felt free, the pain just a distant echo as he smiled at his old friend.

"Words usually come so easily to me, but I do not yet understand what this means, my old friend. Have I truly died? Will you tell me?"

Moritz remained silent.

"But if it is you who can't talk, that means that I must still be alive. Am I— hallucinating? Is this real?"

There was no answer, Moritz bowing his head as he smiled, making Melchior's heart leap in his chest.

"You know of her, don't you? My angel? Who rescued me? Moritz, she looks just like Wendla, I—"

Both boys froze suddenly, the familiar brunette walking in to cast a worried look at the bed before disappearing again, wiping her hands at the front of her apron.

"Moritz, I swear, I have never seen a girl so beautiful, so perfect. But she's— I can't hear her, is she still alive?" Panic rose in his chest as he shook his head. "Moritz, I wish to believe in heaven only in the hopes that you may have found some peace in that refuge, and yet if it does exist, I do not wish my Wendla to be there, I— not after I felt so certain that she was alive, that she saved me! If it's not her, I will surely die, just as I died in her arms that fateful night that I took her as my own. I-I do not know why words fail me, still, my friend. She must be alive! Am I wrong? Or is it that I am simply dreaming? My mind lulling me into its comforts only to let me wake in sorrow, knowing I may never again feel her hands' caress on my face? I long to touch her, Moritz, I—"

Melchior woke with a start, eyes wide, dizziness gripping him like an old friend too long gone. Had he just been dreaming his angel, his eyes playing tricks on him as he looked on perfect chestnut curls? Or was she really there, still alive for him to touch, should she let him?

His head ached horribly as he looked around himself, the small room stifling despite how cold he felt.

Moving to get up out of the bed, his leg screamed in pain, Melchior's eyes going wide as he stopped himself, holding his breath to keep from making any noise as blood continued to seep through the bandages that had been expertly wound around his leg by his angel. To think, that a task as foolish as losing his letter to Wendla had resulted in his finding his angel— perhaps Wendla was right, and there was a reason to believe in fate, heaven.

Knowing that just lying beside Wendla once more would be heaven for him, the need to get up and find her felt more pressing than ever, and he struggled as he managed to stand on his good leg, staggering just slightly.

That was when his eyes fell on the wooden bassinet before him, a small crib clearly intended for a young child.

Was he going mad? Thinking his angel was Wendla only because coincidence seemed to wish to drive him to insanity? Wendla had mentioned in her last letter to him at the reformatory that she was pregnant. With her no longer on this fateful earth, it didn't— shouldn't have mattered, and there had been no point in dwelling on the thought of their unborn child, lost too soon, the child Wendla had wished to raise in a better world, with him.

But if she was alive, did that mean that the child— _their_ child— was, too? That he was, _truly_, a father?

Running a slow, gentle hand over the inside of the bassinet, he held his breath, trying to think back. Had the little girl he'd seen stretch her arm out towards him in the market been his own? Had he been so blind as to miss each and every one of the signs that Wendla truly was, not only _alive_, but alive and well in London, with him?

If she had been kind enough to save him, it had to mean that she still felt some affection for him, not repulsed at his actions, at the way he'd— he hadn't meant to force her, hadn't ever meant to impregnate her against her will. In that moment, with her in the hayloft, it had been impossible to stop himself, the need to be with her, completely, to _take her as his_, overwhelming. And even now, knowing the consequences, he would not think twice to lie beside her again, to share that little bit of heaven with her once more.

His sweet, perfect angel.

The door creaked open, Melchior stumbling for a moment as he fought to regain his footing once more, eyes wide as he took her in.

"Wendla," he breathed, her face frozen in shock for a moment as she strained not to drop the dish she was holding. Nodding briefly for a moment as she blinked, Wendla set the soup down on the floor, her body quick to close the door behind her, looking very much as though she wished she could shrink against it.

"Y-you look as though you've seen a ghost," he whispered softly, watching her carefully as she bit on her bottom lip, her body still pressed against the door.

"Melchi," she shook her head, her voice trembling. "You— you should lie down again, your wounds— they're just terrible."

"You sound just like her, too," he muttered softly, not moving from his spot on the floor, as though his body had anchored itself there, adamant to stay as close to her as possible as he could be, even as he knew of his leg's present limitations. "You are her, aren't you," he swallowed hard, shaking his head as he felt tears in his eyes. "I would know her face anywhere. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

Wendla stayed frozen to the spot for a moment before finally averting her eyes from him, trying hard not to cry. "You— you should rest. You suffered a great fall. Please don't make me ask you again."

"But how can I rest?" he demanded, fighting his body to take a step towards her, his leg screaming in pain. "When I just found you again? I-I couldn't possibly, it's—"

"Please," she whispered, her hands clasped tightly behind her back as she stared to the side, anywhere but at him.

"Please _what_, Wendla? You— must have known that I would wake up eventually! Or you wouldn't have saved me! My... sweet, perfect angel."

His hand reached out to touch on her cheek, Wendla squeezing her eyes shut even as she seemed to relax, leaning into him despite her best efforts to stay as far away as possible, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Melchi, _please_."

"Wendla, look at me," he whispered, his thumb drawing patterns on her cheek even as she shook her head _no_, adamant. "Wendla, please, I beg of you. Just let me see you! I thought I'd lost you forever, I—"

"Do you not think this is hard enough already? Losing you— Melchi, I _can't_. I can't look at you and watch you tell me things that I _know _aren't true."

"I saw your gravestone, Wendla," he finally said, letting his hand fall from her face as he stared at her. "I saw it with my own eyes, right next to Moritz's. I was about to follow Moritz when—"

"What?" she whispered, big eyes giving in to blink up at him, tears still streaming down her cheeks, relentless in their assault of her as he fought to keep them at bay himself.

"I-I thought I felt you touch my shoulder," he whispered. "It was like both of you were begging me not to follow you, and I couldn't— I couldn't—"

It was too much, watching Wendla cry, talking about the graveyard, fresh tears pooling in his eyes as he blinked, wishing he could be stronger, _more _for her.

"Your leg must be aching horribly," she whispered. "Please just— sit."

Taking him by the arm, she led him back over to the bed, moving to kneel before him as she touched on his face, her hand cupping his cheek.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she whispered, shaking her head. "That you'd... found another, gone on to do wonderful things."

"Without you?" Melchi shook his head frantically, reaching out to cup her face in his hands, fighting to memorize all of her features at once, again. "I couldn't. I would— I could never find another, Wendla. Never."

"I wrote to you so often," she whispered. "In— in that horrible place, and even after, I never gave up trying to reach you. I wrote to your mother, but... who knows how many letters our parents intercepted from each other. To think that... we had been missing each other all this time..."

"I will never let you out of my sight again," Melchior vowed, shaking his head as he studied her face for some glimmer of hope in her features, so that he might grab hold of it and let it roam freely. "That alone, I promise you above all else. Never, Wendla."

Hesitation flittered across her face before he could catch it, and she frowned, refusing to look at him. "I must ask you—"

The sound of a child's crying sent a wave of shock over her features, and she stood, abrupt. "I-I'll be back, I—" Staring at him, she shook her head, tucking trembling hands behind her back as he watched her move. "Please— you should rest. You are still unwell, and I— I need to return to my duties. But— I promise you, I will return. Until then, try to eat your soup. It will help, I promise. Both against the cold and an uneasy stomach. You've been hardly eating, I could tell when I dressed your bandages," she nodded, frowning sternly for a moment, looking as though she was struggling to reign herself in as much as he was, slipping out the door a moment later to leave him alone, a slave to his thoughts.

The temptation to go after her was almost too great, his leg the only thing holding him back from following her as he held his breath, praying that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, that he would wake up any moment now to find that all of it— even his losing his letter in the market— had just been an elaborate dream.


	3. Chapter 3

At night, when she knew Sophie's cries would disturb the others, she'd press the child to her breast and rock her gently, instantly calming her. It was amazing that the same thing that she used to calm Melchior worked just as perfectly for Sophie, just pressing her to her chest as she sat in her bed.

Tonight, however, nothing seemed to be working, and it was entirely her own fault.

"But— what are you doing out here, Wendla?" a very tired Anna whispered, closing the door to her and Margarete's room behind her.

"It's— she needs to be in her crib to sleep, and I can't—"

"Well, don't be so modest! You're perfectly well-dressed! Besides," she scolded, her tone stern, "this was your idea, bringing this boy into the house!"

Wendla shot Anna a terse glare, bouncing Sophie gently in her arms as she stood. "Anna, if I confess of something to you, will you _promise_ me not to tell any of the others? But— you must _promise_!"

It was silly even to ask; any girl would have agreed in a heartbeat in the hopes of finding out a well-coveted secret from another girl, and Wendla held her breath as she clutched Sophie closer.

"He's... the father."

Anna's eyes went wide as she stared at Wendla, the whispered confession hanging heavy in the air. A million unanswered questions appeared to race through her mind all at once as she blinked almost owlishly at her.

"But— that's—"

"Anna, please, you need to believe me."

"No, I— it's just—" Seeming to take a deep, controlled breath, Anna gave a terse nod, her hands smoothing down her front somewhat stiffly as she tried to process the information before her. "Of course I believe you, but I thought you were both from—"

"— yes," Wendla nodded, her gaze pleading with her. "I don't know how it happened, Anna. But you can't tell anyone! I can't lose him again!"

Throwing her another look, she quickly nodded, taking Sophie out of Wendla's arms to gently bounce her in her arms. "Bring her crib into my room. She can sleep there tonight." Hesitating somewhat in the doorway, Anna frowned. "Does— does he know? That he's a father?"

Wendla just shook her head, quickly turning her back as she moved to fetch the basinette.

"Wendla—" Anna's voice stopped her, her hands frozen on the cool handle of the door, "just— be careful. Don't bring another child into this world that you can't provide for."

* * *

She didn't see Melchior again that night, choosing to sleep out in the rocking chair in the kitchen in which she breast-fed Sophie. She hadn't expected him to wake up, and the thought of sleeping beside him again when he could wake at any moment seemed too terrifying, too daunting with memories from a time when she'd been still so innocent and her whole world had felt differently than it did now.

Still, he had to eat, and she couldn't avoid him forever. There were things to talk about, things to address between them.

As the door shut on Wendla again, she sucked in a deep breath, Melchior holding his breath for some kind of revelation from her as she fought back tears.

"Our time..."

"Yes," he whispered, nodding urgently.

"I-in the hayloft."

"I know."

"Did you—" holding his breath, he watches her swallow, staring at the wall opposite him, lips drawn together in a thin line. "Did you know what would happen? Whence we would lie together?"

Wendla refused to look at him as he closed his eyes, hanging his head in shame.

"Yes," he whispered quietly, shaking his head all the same. "But— that wasn't why I laid with you, Wendla, you must know that! What I felt for you in that moment could not have been stronger, I— I wished so badly to be with you, to be one with you, as close as our bodies would allow us to be. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that you would be with child!"

With his words, Wendla finally came undone, a choked sob escaping her throat as she shook her head, sinking to the floor. She looked so small, there, as though the weight of the world had been crushing her all this time, Melchior too far away to protect from it as he sank off the bed and to his knees before her, wishing the shooting, stabbing pain in his leg would disappear, his hand reaching out to gently grasp hers in his.

"Wendla, please, I never meant to force you! My perfect, sweet, beautiful angel, I never meant for any of this to happen! You must believe me!"

Watching her nod just faintly through the onslaught of her tears, Melchior felt relief bubble up in his chest, crawling closer to hold her hand in both of his as he shook his head.

"She's just like you, you know," Wendla whispered, Melchior feeling like his throat might close up any second, his chest unbelievably tight. "It was so hard to look at her and know that you weren't there anymore, Melchi. That I was all alone in this. It's been so hard without you, I hardly know why I did not simply give in to the darkness and let it consume me."

"We have a daughter," he muttered quietly, shock still gripping his chest tightly in its stronghold, the weight of the statement bearing down on him with surprising vengeance.

"Yes," she nodded, wiping her tear-stained eyes.

"I— I will take full responsibility," he whispered softly, finally meeting her gaze as he squeezed her hand. "This is my fault, why would I not."

"Melchi..."

"I'm going to take care of you both," he vowed, shaking his head again, adamant as ever. "I will. I promise you, Wendla. I will take you away from this place, provide for all of us. I— I have a small room above a library where I work. The old man will die within a couple of years, I'm sure, and since he doesn't have any friends or relatives, that means I'll be taking over. Making a profit and being able to provide for us. As a _family_."

Feeling Wendla bury her face in his front, her head cradled tightly against his chest as he clung to her, Melchior could hardly stop himself, a soft sigh of relief slipping past his lips. _This_, this was heaven, here in Wendla's arms, with her tucked close to him, her body so near his that he might die if he could not touch her.

"I hear your heartbeat, Melchi," she whispered, and he fought to hold back tears, aching to hold her closer, to be one with her once more.

"I never stopped hearing yours, Wendla. Wherever I was, I could hear it beating. It didn't matter where— you never left my heart, not even when I thought I'd lost you forever."

"I-I love you."

Melchior felt his heart constrict in his chest, his eyes going wide as he held onto her. No, no, she couldn't love him, not yet— they'd only just found each other, it was too soon. An inner piece of Melchior felt as if it recoiled at her words. What they'd shared in his parents' hayloft had not been love, it had been far too physical, regardless of how desperately his heart had hammered in his chest as he looked on her, felt her with him.

But now, with her— there was no denying it, his hand threading into her hair possessively as he held her close.

"And I love you," he echoed, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.

The responsibility he felt was far too great, and he relented easily as Wendla sat up on her knees to cradle him to her chest instead, tugging him close as one would a child. How infuriating it was, feeling oneself move so quickly from being a man one minute, to being a child once more the next, a scared little boy who knew little more than what was written in books.

But books could not explain the feeling in his chest, the way his heart skipped a beat whenever he thought of Wendla, the need to have her close searing through his body with terrifying urgency.

"How I've longed to touch you again," he murmured into her front, shaking his head against the soft, cotton material.

"Melchi— we can't."

"I can hardly think what I would have done if I had lost you, truly— if I had woken in my room above the library to find that this was all just a dream," he shook his head, pulling back to look at her, unrelenting wanting tugging at him. "That my angel was not so near me as I had hoped. Wendla, do you not feel it? The longing for— touch? For us to be one again, once more?"

"Of course," she whispered desperately, clinging to his arms as she looked on him. "Of course I feel it. I've thought of that night far too often since missing you, Melchi. But I was left with child when you left! I couldn't— will it not happen again?"

"You're right," he swallowed hard, fighting back his urges through the thick veil of lust and desire threatening to overwhelm him.

"We can't let that happen again," she whispered, softer then, her hand reaching out to softly caress his cheek. "It's too dangerous."

"Then at least let me kiss you again." Leaning his forehead against hers, he sighed softly, his lips begging to close the distance between them once more.

He'd hardly felt in control of his body the last time they'd been together. He'd been longing for that moment, to lie with her, their bodies as one, for far too long, and the sheer thought of it, the idea that he might let that moment escape him whence he felt so near it— he couldn't bear to let it slip away.

And while he didn't wish to force her again— if that had truly been what he'd done to her— he couldn't help but feel the same urge again now, to kiss her, touch her, feel her again.

So when Wendla didn't pull away from him, he didn't hesitate any longer, wrapping one strong hand about the back of her neck to pull her close, pressing his lips to her with desperate longing.

Over two years he'd waited, wished to find this moment again where he might kiss her, and this time, she wasn't even pulling back from him, wasn't hesitating as she presses her lips to his in return, whimpering softly as he pressed his body against hers in spite of the pain searing through his leg.

He ached, and badly, but he couldn't bear to tear away from his angel, the hope that her lips on his offered him, sighing softly in the wake of her.

Gradually, ever-so-slowly, his hand trailed from its spot in her hair to slip lower on her breast, grasping softly, first through her gown, and then, as his courage grew alongside his longing, past the lacing, past the hem covering her still-swollen breasts, nothing barring his hand from touching her perfect skin any longer.

But with his hand on her breast, Wendla struggled, squirming to break free from his hand, the way his finger teased greedily at her nipple, his pants already unbearably tight as he fought to keep her close.

"Wendla, please!"

"N-no!" she pulled away as he finally let her go, her eyes wide, dress askew. "Melchi, we—"

Attempting to right her dress once more, she quickly stood, her arms trembling as she cast a glance at the bare spot where formerly a crib had stood, before promptly turning on her heel to slip out the door again, leaving him to pick himself up and hobble back over to lie on the bed.

He didn't know how to control himself around her. He wanted her _so badly_, and it had been _so long_ since they'd been together— how was he supposed to stop himself?

He could still remember the salty taste of his own tears, the feeling of harsh sobs wracking his body upon the sight of her grave, the knowledge that she'd left him just as Moritz had, the temptation of the blade at the thought of facing a future without her.

If he hadn't felt certain that love was real, and true, and possible, that moment had changed everything.

Now, he wished nothing more than to right his wrongs, to thank the world for giving him back his Wendla and love her fully and completely, as a— a _husband_ ought.

"I'm going to make an honest woman out of her, Moritz," he whispered softly, nodding to the empty space before him. "She deserves a proper husband who loves her and will care for her— and our child. I— I'll marry her. It's settled then— as soon as I'm able."

And though Moritz didn't respond, Melchior couldn't help but smile softly to himself as he laid down to sleep that night, content in the knowledge that he might be able to make this right.

* * *

Wendla didn't come back that night, or the next, Melchior simply waking on occasion to discover a tray of food beside his bed and fresh bandages around his lacerations.

She was avoiding him, but by the second night, the crib had found its way back into the room, though he never actually saw the child meant to occupy it.

That was, not until three days later, Melchior busy writing into his journal once more, the slow but steady improvement of his wounds allowing him to better sit up once more.

_December 30th, 1893_

_My dearest friend,_

_I have been most negligent in writing to you. Talking is hardly a substitution, even if my sickness-addled brain would seem to disagree, but— I do need your help._

_I wish to marry Wendla, my sweet, perfect angel— to make a proper woman of her so she might not have to feel shame in her heart knowing that she is carrying a child though her ring-finger remains bare. But I have no friends here, save for the old man, and hardly a way to access his counsel in this state, the invalid that I seem to have become in Wendla's care. She is a wonderful hostess, but I fear I am a burden to her. She hardly does come to see me, almost as though she is afraid of what we might do if left to our own devices. Bodies touching, loving, caressing each other— I need to feel her again, need to know that she's real. Lately, everything has felt like a figment of my imagination, and—_

The creaking of the door stopped him dead in his pen's tracks, his head snapping up at the sound.

The child peeking its head in the door had a full head of light-brown, curly hair, the eyes blinking owlishly at him a brilliant shade of dark brown, much like Wendla's own. As it hesitantly took a step inside, he could make out the outline of a dress, smudged and yellow, a fluffy teddy bear clutched close to her chest as she closed the door and walked up to him.

She appeared to be sucking one some kind of _Lutschbeutel_, small fingers clutching onto one end of the cloth tied tightly about a small, round bundle of sugar, presumably to alleviate the inevitable pains from teething.

As her eyes searched him curiously, Melchior slowly sat down both his fountain pen and his journal, offering a small, hesitant smile.

Letting go of the beutel, she reached up to offer him her teddy bear, seemingly encouraged by his smile even as he slowly shook his head. He had no need for a bear.

But the little girl didn't seem to care, making a distressed noise around the sugar sack in her mouth as she pushed the bear at him a bit more insistently once more, Melchior finally reaching down to take it.

"Thank you," he offered quietly, smiling again as she nodded.

"Sophie, where—"

Even the bear seemed to freeze, stopping dead in its tracks as both Sophie's and Melchior's gazes shot to the door where Wendla stood, realization hitting Melchior like an ice bath, eyes wide as he swallowed.

"You're—" Wendla's cheeks had turned a bright shade of pink as she wrung her hands before her lap, obviously flustered. "You're not supposed to be in here," she admonished softly. "Come on, take your bear back and run out and play. Anna is out in the garden, you can go there."

Sophie offered an apologetic look to him as she took her bear back, slipping past her mother to scuttle out, Wendla still refusing to look at him.

"Wendla—" he sat up a bit, making to stand.

"_Don't_."

Her voice had taken on a softer quality, far more pleading with him than anything else, and she nervously ran her hands over the front of her dress. Whether she was telling him not to get up out of the bed or not to state the obvious, he wasn't sure, his gaze wavering over her abdomen where their child had once been.

"I've been a fool," he said softly, swallowing hard as his eyes seemed to plead with her, Wendla finally daring to look back at him. "How can I provide for you and our child as a family if we're not married?"

"I-I've been faring just fine on my own," she added slowly, her voice small as she kept her eyes trained on the floor.

"Fine isn't good!" he shot back, moving to stagger to his feet, quick to keep his weight focused on his good leg. "I— this is my fault. I should have been there for you, Wendla! All this time I could have been a good husband and father, and instead, I just thought about myself... _again_," he sighed, adding it almost as if an afterthought.

"Melchi, no, I— you _couldn't_ have known."

"But I _should_ have! I should have expected that this would be something that your mother might do— to keep us apart!" Sighing softly, he shook his head, seemingly frustrated with himself. "I'm going to provide for you, Wendla. From now on. I've hurt you— but I'm going to make this right. I _have to_! For you— a-and Moritz. And our child."

"You should sit. You're not well yet, and I do not wish for you to injure yourself again by reopening one of your wounds."

"Tell me about her," he muttered softly, even as he moved to sit once more, "— our child. Please— I _truly_ wish to know," he laughed softly, almost as though in disbelief over his own words.

* * *

That afternoon, Melchior learned all about his daughter, Wendla reluctantly coming to sit by his side on the bed and grasping hold of his hand as she recounted her pregnancy, the arduous birth in the midst of the summer heat, Sophie's character and how similar, truly, she was to him, and every milestone he'd managed to miss. When she'd started walking, laughing— the fact that her first word had been _papa_ and how hard Wendla had cried over his absence in light of Sophie's development especially. She was curious, impetuous, exceptionally bright, and had quite a temper, just like her father.

It was only when her stories began to quiet, when Melchior dared lean in to kiss her, that she decided it was getting late, muttering something about chores and Sophie and needing to leave.

It was all he could do to not lose his mind that night, his hand the only possible comfort for the wanting she'd left him with, hardly able to stop himself.

Knowing that he might once again touch his perfect angel, his Wendla, was proving to be his greatest salvation in a sea formerly raging with despair. There was no other girl, no greater girl that he could ever imagine lying beside, and if this meant he had to be patient and wait for her— _marry her_— then he would. Make a proper woman out of her, finally, just as he'd promised.


	4. Chapter 4

_January 17th, 1894_

Several weeks had passed since the accident, Melchior's leg recovering nicely enough to the point where he could walk (albeit, with a faltering step) out into the kitchen and make himself useful, either by playing with Sophie— who had taken quite the liking to him— or sitting and peeling potatoes.

Anything that could keep him seated was deemed a safe way for him to help Wendla, and he couldn't have been more grateful. Occasionally, waiting to make sure that no one was looking, he'd reach out to grab her around the waist to pull her into his lap, resulting in a loud squeal or her giggles as he'd attempt to tickle her without being caught.

For the first time in a long time, he heard Wendla laugh again, the sweetest sound he could ever remembering hearing.

Each night, once Wendla had gone to sleep, he was left to scribble furiously to Moritz, letter after letter eagerly trying to recall the precise sound, the feeling in his chest that she was evoking, the way he'd somehow fallen in love with a girl without even realizing it.

Losing Wendla, he'd come to find, had been the greatest gift he could have ever been offered. There was nothing on this earth more wonderful— or more important— than his angel and their child. She'd taught him to love, to grieve, and to fight for what truly mattered.

And it had only been through his losing her that he'd learned.

Love was the most precious commodity in the world. No reward, no matter how great, could have convinced him to give up his memories of her— though he might not have grieved any longer, might have been able to continue living, what kind of life would it have been without Wendla? Without knowing Wendla, knowing the beauty that she'd inspired in his heart?

Without Wendla, what was he, truly? An empty shell of a person— books and knowledge and pompadour. He'd had class, and charm, certainly. But he'd been an utter fool, thinking these were the only things that mattered, that nothing was worth believing in.

How many fools he and his friends have for fathers? How many fools reigned supreme in each household, each home, each government, each law-abiding nation? Was everyone but him blind to the importance of love, of treasuring something greater than oneself? Moritz's father certainly had been blind to even loving his own son.

Upon his realization where Wendla had been sleeping over the time that he'd been delirious, Melchior had come to insist almost immediately that she take up the spot in her bed that he had been occupying once more. An undeniable pang of desire had reminded him of his ardent wish to lie beside her once more, but he knew— and understood— that she'd be unwilling to even do as such for the time being. Even if nothing transpired between them, he knew he'd falter in attempting to keep himself under control completely, and that aside, they did not need to start any rumors. Not yet.

Not until his mother's ring rightfully laid on her finger.

He'd been peeling potatoes in the kitchens while Wendla was outside hanging laundry (Sophie having climbed into the basket to the result of much laughter from some, and scolding from others) when the news came, Anna bustling inside and dragging Wendla along behind her.

"You'll never believe it," she muttered softly, clutching onto Wendla's hands tightly. "Wendla, you have a secret admirer! And from the looks of this letter, he seems more than intent on courting you!"

Melchior's head snapped up almost instantly, his eyes going wide as the knife slipped and slid straight into his thumb, a sharp hiss following quickly.

"But— it's not signed," she muttered just as Anna snatched the letter back again, twirling once just as Sophie scuttled about her legs trying to grab hold of the folded piece of paper.

"That's why it's a _secret _admirer!" She grinned, Maria running over in the hopes of reading the letter herself.

"But that's ridiculous! No one knows me— I'm a single mother living as a maid— I hardly think that I'm court-worthy, Anna!"

"Well, _someone _certainly thinks you are... any guesses as to who it could be?"

For a few seconds, Melchior caught her gaze just before Wendla snatched the letter out of Anna's hands, folded it twice more, and slipped it into one of her pockets.

"_No_. Now, I need to get back to the laundry."

Clenching his jaw, Melchior swore softly under his breath. The pain in his leg was almost manageable by now, and if Anna's claim really was true— regardless of what Wendla seemed to think of it— then he had to act fast. He wasn't rich or accomplished, nor could he even be considered particularly virtuous, and if a nobleman or even some kind of merchant could offer her and Sophie a home and food on the table, why would she ever choose him, even if he was Sophie's father? The only thing he had behind his claim of wishing to marry was love, greater than any conviction he'd ever felt before in his life, but love couldn't sustain a family, couldn't—

"You're bleeding on the potatoes, boy!" Edith snapped at him, Melchior straightening at once, closing his eyes as he fought to regain his bearings. "Pay attention!"

He'd have to leave tonight if he truly wished to claim Wendla as his own for once and for all.

* * *

_January 18th, 1894_

_Mama,_

_I write to you with both wonderful, fantastic news— and a request, the latter being most humble and desperate._

_But first, the good news, knowing that I promise you I am quite in good health and that my eyes certainly do not deceive me, nor do my hands or my lips. Wendla is alive! Mama, you will never believe it, I am sure of it, but she's here, in London, just as I am. We even have a daughter— you remember, of course, my telling you that she was pregnant. Her name is Sophie. I wish you could see her, mama, or that I might send a picture of her to you, but she is truly the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, with Wendla's eyes and a temperament just like mine._

_If only you could see how happy I am, mama! All this time, I thought her lost to me forever, and now I have gained not only Wendla back, but our daughter, as well._

_I cannot think of anything that would bring me greater joy than to marry Wendla and make her my wife. There is nothing I have ever wanted so badly, I have ever desired so much as this. All this time, raising me and teaching me, you meant for me to see and understand what truly mattered by letting me make my own decisions and choose my own paths, and I could not be more thankful to you._

_I desire to take her away from here, this place where she is working, and make of her a proper wife and mother. In our own household, where we might raise both our daughter and our future children. I can take her with me, of course, to live at the library with the old man, but that amount of space is not enough to raise a child._

_Which is what leads to my request, mama._

_I wish to become a teacher. At a university, perhaps. My English has become greatly improved— you'd be so proud if only you could see how much your son has grown— and I hope that, perhaps, by enrolling in a university, that I might get the education necessary to teach. Tuition costs, even without room and board, however, are still far more expensive than I can afford. If there is any chance of you sending any spare money to us, I'd be honored— and even further in your debt than I already was._

_I can only dare pray that your son will be as wise and as prudent of a teacher and a parent as his mother was unto him._

_With love,_  
_Yours truly,_  
_Melchior._

* * *

_My dearest angel, my Wendla,_

_By the time you wake, I will no longer be here. Please don't fear. I won't be gone long._

_I love you._

Leaving the note on the floor beside her where he'd slept, Melchior cautiously moved to stand, stretching his back before carefully placing some of his weight on his injured foot. He'd have to tread quietly if he wanted to leave unseen, slipping out the servant's door through the kitchen and into the bustling London streets. Even before the cock crew, a fair number of people seemed to be awake other than him, and he quickly made his way to the post office, as best as he could with the slight stagger in his gait.

* * *

Not a sound could be heard as he entered the old library, Melchior slipping upstairs to his room in the attic as swiftly as his weaker leg could manage. The stairs were more difficult than he'd hoped, but finally he found himself alone in his room once more— a few mice aside.

Nothing seemed to have dared disturb even a single pen or piece of paper upon the small mantle he'd chosen to write his letters upon. Even his small bag of his things— some clothes, an old journal— seemed completely untouched, and skilled fingers wasted no time in finding the object of his desire inside, pulling out the small satchel with a practiced hand, as though he'd let the object play over his hand countless of times while staring out the small window to look at the stars.

Pulling out his mother's engagement ring that she'd offered him the same night he'd come to find Wendla dead, a treasured family heirloom that, even after his discovery, he couldn't bear to part with again, Melchior smiled softly to himself, his thumb eagerly tracing its more delicate features.

She'd say yes.

She _had _to.

* * *

He returned just after nightfall, easily slipping back inside only to find a half-dressed Wendla standing in what he'd come to understand as being their room, wearing only a combination garment that included both a chemise and her drawers in one, his breath catching in his throat.

Even when they'd made love, he hadn't seen her fully, had only seen and felt her breasts and between her legs, felt her around him as he slid inside of her and became one with her. The thought of seeing her completely—

"W-Wendla—"

"Oh—!" Almost immediately, her hands stilled on the closure holding the top of her chemise together, quickly grabbing the blanket off her bed to wrap around herself. Even in nothing but underthings, she was still dressed fairly modestly, with little to see, but the thought alone of feeling her again, letting his eyes roam over her body...

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— I didn't know you were—"

"I-I thought you'd left, I didn't think—"

"I said I'd be back!"

"And so soon," she whispered, looking down at him, her eyes stilling as she seemed to take in the obvious bulge in his trousers, Melchior clearing his throat and quickly tearing his gaze from her form.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Wendla, please, it's nothing—"

"It's wrong to stare!"

"Just as it was wrong to love you?" he took a decisive step towards her, shaking his head resolutely as she let her eyes fall to the ground before her, cheeks turning pink. "If there is one thing I would never dare take back, it was that night with you, in my parent's hayloft. Nothing, nothing anyone would dare say could ever make me believe that this wasn't fated. That we'd find each other again. Wendla— I love you more than anything. Doesn't that— doesn't that _mean _something?"

"Of course it does! Why are you— why would it not?"

Swallowing hard, he slowly shook his head, taking another slow step towards her, hand reaching out for her own. "If I promise you," he whispered slowly, begging her gaze to return the same trust to him that he was offering her, "that this is not because of anything but the fact that I love you— so much so that I cannot stand the thought of spending another day without you by my side... will you believe me?"

"I-I don't understand, Melchi—"

"_Please_," his voice cracked, squeezing her hand as his eyes seemed to beg her to trust him. "Please just believe me."

"You'll wake Sophie," she whispered, tearing her gaze from him after a long moment to the crib beside her before pulling her hand free from his to sit down on her bed.

"I wrote to you. Before. Telling you that— nothing would make me happier than sharing that little moment of heaven with you again, as when we'd laid together in that hayloft. That I longed just to see you and touch you again as we had."

"But that's—"

"I was wrong, Wendla," he whispered, moving to one knee before her. "I told you before, I was a fool. Do you know how infuriating it feels? Feeling as though one is man, one minute, and a child once more then next? But I've— I've grown. I've _learned_— and so much. You, Moritz, my mother— I could never have asked for more excellent teachers," he laughed softly, almost as if in disbelief of himself. "You've shown me— no, _taught_ me what really, truly matters. And it doesn't matter what sort of man it is that is courting you, he _can't_ be better for you than me, because no one— _no one_— loves you as much as I do. I don't care if he's a— a doctor, or a nobleman, I—"

"Melchior," she whispered harshly, her hand coming up to cradle his face as she shook her head. "There's no one else. No one."

"But then—"

"This?" Wendla plucked the folded letter up off the small nightstand beside her, offering him a smile. "It's yours."

"... what?"

"You wrote this," she nodded, slowly unfolding the letter to show him. "Before you knew that I was alive. You didn't finish, but..."

True enough, there it was, his own words staring back at him as though not a single day had passed since his accident, since trying to recover that very letter.

"... you're not being courted by anyone," he said softly, biting his lip as he looked down at the letter as she set it aside again, feeling more than a little sheepish.

"My very own Melchior Gabor is my secret admirer," she smiled, her hand reaching out to cup his face.

"Well, then perhaps he does love you as much as I do," he whispered softly, the hand reaching down into his pocket itching in eager anticipation.

"Yes," she slowly nodded, "just as I love him."

"... marry me," he whispered, his hand drawing forth his mother's ring, trembling enough to warrant the other to help steady it in its wake. "Please— Wendla, I want nothing more than to have you as my wife. I lost you once. I won't lose you again, not this time. I want to be your husband. And Sophie's father— so you can be a proper wife and mother now, no longer having to go through all this on your own, alone." Swallowing audibly, he could feel that his eyes had gone damp, his hands still shaking as he looked up at her. "Please— please Wendla. Say you'll marry me."

"... yes," she breathed, barely loud enough for him to hear as she stared down at his trembling hands. "Marry you— why wouldn't I wish it?"

"So— we'll be wed? And... soon?"

"Yes!" she nodded, barely able to still keep her voice to a whisper as her face split into the widest grin he'd ever seen on her beautiful face, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck as he held her close.

"Just—" pulling back from her, clutching her hands in his even as he still held his mother's— no, _Wendla's _ring, now— between forefinger and thumb, Melchior swallowed hard, moving to rest his forehead against hers before finally slipping it onto her ring finger and returning to hold her hands again. "I do not ever wish you to think that I'm asking this of you just so we might feel that same bliss again— I wish it, and certainly— but I want to marry you because I cannot ever think that I might ever be happy again with anyone but you by my side. You've held your place in my heart for so long now— please."

"Yes," she whispered, blinking away tears herself. "Y-yes, I— I know. But... I do. Wish to."

"Lie beside me once more?" he could barely believe his own ears, the words seeming to tumble from his mouth in one long, excited utterance rather than be spoken, let alone coherently.

"_Yes_."

"But— you'll get pregnant again, won't you?" he muttered softly, his eyes straying once more to where their daughter had grown not two years ago.

"If we'll be married..."

"Yes," he whispered, nodding quickly. "Of course. It's... nothing to be ashamed of. Not anymore— especially not now," he swallowed hard, reaching up to cup her face for a long moment before finally reclaiming her lips once more.

She tasted just as he remembered, her lips soft against his as he moved to stand as best he could, pushing aside the blanket she'd attempted— however feebly— to cover herself with.

It felt almost exactly as it had before in his parent's hayloft— with one significant difference.

This time, he knew how important the girl lying beneath him truly was as he lowered her down to the bed, kissing her as desperately as the last time he'd held her in his arms. Knowing that he loved her, that she was to be the mother to all his children, that she would be his wife— how could any feeling in the world compete?

"I love you," he whispered softly against her lips, his hands moving to swiftly undo the work she had managed on the closure of her chemise and eagerly pulling the fabric aside so he might touch her again, feel the soft swell of her breast against his hand.

"I-I love you, too," she nodded, a sharp intake of breath following the sensation of his hand upon her chest.

"H-here, let me—" Sitting up, Melchior drew down his suspenders, untucking his shirt and taking the time to unbutton it, chucking it off just as he'd finished. If he got to see Wendla, it was only fair that she got to see him, as well, his hands moving down to undo his pants, shucking them off his legs just as she sat up to watch him.

"Wh-what are you—"

"It's all right," he whispered, slowly nodding. "I want to see you. Just as you should see me. If I am to be your husband, this isn't something we ought to be ashamed of, Wendla."

Nodding a bit uncertainly, Wendla sat up more fully to watch as he drew his down his own under-drawers from his legs, in turn, leaving him completely bare, his erection coming free as he stared at her, breathing hard.

"You— you, too," he nodded, which seemed to draw her back out of her reverie once more, her head snapping up from where she'd been staring at his cock. With barely trembling hands, she slowly drew down her combination undergarment, slipping it off her legs to leave her just as bare as he was, his breath catching in his throat, unbelievably tight as he forced himself to swallow.

"Oh," he muttered softly, unable to stop himself from staring just as she was.

She really, truly, was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Of that, he was certain.

"Can I... t-touch it?" she muttered softly, finally tearing her gaze up and off of him to look at his face as he slowly nodded.

"Y-yes. Please."

Reaching forward, she gingerly drew him into hand, a soft gasp leaving him as his hips jerked forward at the touch.

"Wendla—"

"Yes," she nodded quickly, moving back onto the bed to lie down again, just as she had done for him before.

He could still hardly believe that she was here— that he had her again, lying beneath him, knowing everything and nevertheless still willing to be with him as he hovered over her, his eyes eager to drink in every last inch of skin he missed the last time he'd held her this close.

Bending down to kiss her again, Melchior urged her to wrap her legs around his waist, the hand not supporting his weight above her moving down her front, worshiping, caressing her breast— first one, then the other— and continuing down until his fingers found her clit to press against, a harsh cry slipping free from her throat.

"Ahh—"

"Shh," he whispered, desperately kissing her cheek as she whimpered, loud.

"Please, Melchi!"

"Yes—"

Nodding swiftly, he moved to line himself up at her entrance, his fingers probing her folds to make sure she was wet enough for him to smoothly slide inside of her again, to their little place of heaven once more.

"Please," she whispered again, Melchior barely able to restrain himself any longer as he finally slid inside of her once more, Wendla crying out at the sudden intrusion.

She wasn't a virgin anymore, but she still felt impossibly tight, and the sudden fear that he'd gone too fast, too hard, had hurt her in some way— gripped him even more tightly than the desperate urge to _move _that seemed to have taken hold of him, his arms trembling as he fought not to.

"D-did I— did I hurt you?" he whispered frantically, mentally begging her to say no so that he might make love to her again.

"I'm okay," she whispered back, nodding. "I-it was just— a-a bit much at first— but it feels good."

Nodding back at her hurriedly, that seemed to be the only encouragement he needed before starting to move, straining to somehow mentally catalogue each and every look on her face, every feeling, every nuance about this that he'd missed or forgotten from their first time together.

He already felt dangerously close to coming, a low groan leaving him as he buried himself deep inside of his lover, eyes closed in bliss as he felt himself throb his release out into her.

"M-Melchi—"

Shuddering with his exhale, unwilling to pull out as quickly as he had last time upon finishing, he leaned down to cradle her close, her arms tightening about his form as he sighed, gently kissing her temple, her cheek, her lips.

"I-I love you, Wendla," he whispered softly, resting his forehead against hers as she closed her eyes.

"And I love you."

* * *

_April 10th, 1894_

_Mama,_

_Thank you for your letter— both your congratulations and your reassurance that you might help fund my studies. I promise you, I will not disappoint you. By the time I am done, you shall be proud to have me as your son, of that I am certain._

_It just so happens that I have most wonderful news to tell you again!_

_I am sorry that this letter comes, once again, delayed from when it, perhaps, should have, but life here in London has been terribly busy for Wendla and me. I hardly know where to begin! Perhaps I should start by telling you that we were quietly married, just as I'd hoped, on January 22nd in a small church of Wendla's choosing. Since then, we feel certain— enough so to inform you of the happy news— that Wendla is pregnant again, and that we are eagerly awaiting the birth of our second child now. This time, the news comes much less unexpectedly, but no less happily! Sophie is a joy in our lives. I never understood your delight in having children before, mama, but. As it is, I truly believe I may now._

_That said, I hardly think you'll believe the rest of my story of all that happened since I last wrote to you! It was after our wedding that we returned to the library and I found the old man, at least two weeks dead. I didn't want Wendla and Sophie to see, but it was Wendla, brave as ever, who stepped in and urged me to go to Scotland Yard to notify the authorities and have a doctor sent out to the library._

_Little did we know that a lawyer would be dispatched alongside! And here is truly where our good fortune comes in, mama._

_As the old man didn't have any children or living relatives of his own, he had placed me— unbeknownst to me!— into his will. I was to inherit the library and all his belongings, including his money— and not a small sum, either! Enough, certainly for Wendla and me to move to the English countryside, perhaps a university town where we might live together, comfortably, while I study to teach._

_The city's lawyers have been keeping me more than occupied, believe me! But from all this, I believe we'll be able to sell the library— where we are living now, in the old man's former living quarters— as well as some of his belongings to add on top of the sum._

_Perhaps it might even be enough for you to visit us, mama! I know Wendla would certainly love to be able to talk to you— especially after all that's happened._

_Much love,_  
_Yours truly,_  
_Melchior._

Setting his pen down, Melchior let out a slow breath, looking up just in time to see Sophie running through the doorway and straight to him, Melchior barely having enough time to snatch her up off the ground mid-run and lift her up into his lap.

"Papa come read?" she grinned up at him, a toothy smile with more than a few gaps from where her baby teeth were still coming in beaming at him.

"I guess papa could have time for that," he grinned back, hoisting her up onto his hip and walking into the vast library as he reached up to tousle his baby girl's hair. "What are we reading today, Sophie?"

"Robin Hood," she declared for what had to be the hundredth time that week already.

"Again?" he laughed as she nodded eagerly, setting her down on the ground and patting her rear to set her off running again. "Well, go get it."

"That's what you get, having a daughter just like you," he heard Wendla's voice coming up behind him, Melchior's face splitting into a grin at the sound of it before cupping her face and leaning down to kiss her, her own hand protectively cradling the small swell of her abdomen..

"Then let's hope she never changes, so I might best suffer my punishment for being such an insufferable husband," he whispered just as he felt a tug on his pants, her free hand clutching onto the book almost too big for her tiny little body.

"Papa! Come read!"

Leaning in for just one more kiss, he reluctantly let his new wife go, slipping away to grab Sophie around her midriff and snatching her up mid-run once more.

"Ready for more adventure?"

"Ready!" she yelled back to him, and Melchior couldn't have felt happier.


End file.
